


Selves Unseen, Unseeing

by Fumika



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Erik has a normal job, F/M, Misappropriating PotO and LND songs in the name of romance, Oblivious Christine, Poor Raoul, Rom-Com Shenanigans, cyrano de bergerac au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumika/pseuds/Fumika
Summary: Erik has spent countless hours cursing the horrible disfigurement no woman could ever love, but when a handsome vicomte pleads his help in wooing the Opéra Populaire’s rising soprano, it seems he may have finally snagged the chance to hear his love sonnets fall from the fair lips that inspired them.  This is definitely in no way, shape, or form an absolutely terrible idea.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

_“Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we say goodbye!”_

Erik winced as the screeching voice of La Carlotta’s Elissa eviscerated what was otherwise a pretty aria, fortunately spared the brunt of its shrillness cloistered as he was backstage at the Opéra Populaire _._ At least in this he could be grateful that Fortuna had been killed off in the previous scene so there remained no reason for him to stay for the rest of the performance. His men, having rehearsed their parts time and time again, were more than capable of finishing out tonight’s show and so with a final nod to Buquet, Erik retreated three floors down to his personal sanctum within the opera house just as _Hannibal_ geared up for its final act.

Of course, as property-master of the Palais Garnier, he had been furnished with a proper office on the first floor of the basement, but then, staying there would mean people might actually be able to find him and that was hardly to be borne. While this was an endless source of frustration for the stage manager, there was little he could do about it considering Erik could just as well have been employed as the master-machinist, gas-engineer, master carpenter, or any other job in-between, and indeed, often had his hand in one department or another throughout a production that despite his infamous surliness, he'd unfortunately become indispensable to the smooth running of each season.

The perk of this was that Erik could reliably count on being undisturbed for the remainder of the night. As he entered at last that blessed refuge and settled at the Viennese piano sequestered amongst a veritable shamble of long-forgotten scenery, dusty instruments, and broken furniture that one person or another had sworn they were going to fix, he aimed to do precisely that. He fished out from between a pile of documents a fine leather casing that held within his longest running composition and then huffed out an irritated breath at the reminder of his last unproductive session littering his piano’s music rack. There really was no saving that aria, fit as it was for little more than kindling. Erik reached up to toss it. Then there was a knock on the door.

The property-master paused, one sinewy hand hovering above the sheet of paper that had been crumpled and smoothed out again far too many times, sure that whatever the noise had been, it could not have possibly been directed at him. Then he heard it again. In the relative silence of this part of the basement, there could be no mistaking its intended target that time. Teeth grinding together, he leapt from his seat and surged at the door, cursing vehemently whichever little _idiot_ must have so thoroughly broken one of his props that they would have no choice but to disturb him here. He flung open the door, opening his mouth for the tirade that would follow.

It was not one of the opera workers.

Erik instantly recognized him: this creature of boundless energy that immediately brightened upon his arrival could be none other than their newest patron, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, whose handsome face and easy smiles had made him a fast favorite amongst the opera house’s laborers. In truth, the de Chagnys’ patronage had been more a venture of the older brother. Philippe de Chagny was the one often seen seated in a private box on performance nights (occasionally joined, as rumor had it, by a certain prima ballerina), not the younger who but a month prior been commissioned aboard the _Requin_ for a three-year expedition in the Artic Circle. This foreknowledge did little to resolve Erik’s mounting confusion and he stood there frowning powerfully at the blonde youth whose vivid grin did not falter in the slightest.

“Good evening, Monsieur! Are you perchance the Garnier’s very own property-master?”

Erik inclined his head. He continued to stand in the doorway and debated whether it would be possible for them remain like that, to address this boy-sailor through the small slit in the door and then send him on his way as quickly as possible—but no. Men of consequence and wealth delighted in nothing more than finding things to be offended at. Grudgingly, Erik stepped back and bid the Vicomte enter before he himself retreated further into the room, observing the youth with a wary eye. The Vicomte stepped inside, removing his fine silk hat as he did so, and took in the cluttered space with an admiring gaze.

“This is a very fine room!” He said, touching a rather ornate music stand with one gloved hand and then turned back to his host. “Is this where you all keep extra instruments and the like?”

“This practice room is my own, monsieur—unless that has changed,” Erik replied stiffly. After all, he had taken great pains with the opera house’s previous owner to ensure that it would be so. Nadir would likely be peeved if he were forced to employ similar—ah, _tactics_ —with the theater’s newest patron.

“No, indeed sir!” returned the young vicomte lightly. “Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André’s affairs are their own. Only—I beg you will forgive my impertinence—I have had it told by the good Madame Giry and her daughter Marguerite that I might be able to find you here.”

Erik quirked a brow. “And what would our opera’s esteemed patron have to do with a mere property-manager?”

“This may mark me a little foolish,” said the Vicomte shyly. “for I know how you artists guard your creations like a jealous lover, but I have come to you, monsieur, in hopes of securing one of your original compositions.”

Erik might have laughed in the boy’s face had he not been a man of such consequence. In the Vicomte’s mien, he sensed no great lover of the arts excepting that sort of plebian appreciation any monsieur or madame plucked from the street may express towards a _pretty song_ , nor indeed would the praises of a mere choreographer and a ballerina move a cultured man to investment. No, men such as the Vicomte de Chagny always had an ulterior motive, thought Erik as his nostrils flared, one that he would be no accomplice in.

“Please, a moment, Maestro!” cried the Vicomte in alarm as Erik abruptly turned his back on him and resumed his spot at the piano, snapping open his newest piece _Don Juan Triumphant!_ overtop the detritus on his music rack. Despite himself, he let out a bitter laugh.

“You have a maestro, Monsieur, and it is certainly not I.”

“No, perhaps you are not this opera house’s very own maestro, but I have heard praise of your talent all the same from those esteemed ladies and I only thought—”

“—thought wrongly, sir!”

“—only thought how there is nothing my dear girl loves more in this world than music and would surely appreciate something other than Tristan and Isolde or Romeo and Juliet.”

Ah, and there at last the _raison d’etre_! He should have guessed that of all the shallow explanations, it would be for the fleeting whims of a vicomte’s love!

“Just a sonnet, monsieur!” again entreated the boy. “Nay—a stanza! Please, monsieur!”

For a moment, Erik merely sat there, eyes clenched tight and teeth grinding together. Then, with a growl of frustration, he promptly wrenched the crumpled sheet out from behind _Don Juan_ , took three long strides where the boy stood worrying the edge of his hat, and held it out unceremoniously in his general direction.

“You may take this one,” he snapped. _And good riddance!_ thought Erik, dismissing the Vicomte’s enthusiastic gratitude with barely concealed disdain as the boy took the proffered piece. Good enough for a chorus girl, he sneered, or whatever little simpering ingénue of the moment was pretty enough to catch the eye of wealthy men. Let him have it, that little scrape he’d been on the verge but moments before of gifting to a candle flame!

“Thank you, monsieur!” grinned the Vicomte again, taking his hand in an enthusiastic one-sided handshake, and then promptly fled from the room, evidently in possession of at least some small trace of good sense. Sparing only a derisive scoff, Erik wasted no remaining thoughts on the Vicomte or his romantic fumbling for the rest that evening, nor even for a better part of the morning. It was not until he had deigned to return to his shared flat on the Rue Petrelle and his friend Nadir, used to his irregular hours, had bid him a sarcastic little _good night_ on his way to his bedroom that Erik again thought of the insolent boy. That, he was sure, would mark the Vicomte’s first and final visit. With this newest conquest secured, he would have no need again for Erik and Erik in turn could to continue enjoying his sanctum in peace just as he had done for the last five years. Secure in the knowledge that he had successfully fended off another curious snake, he slept easily the rest of the morning. Of course, he should have known that God would never deign to make his life so simple.

“Monsieur!” rang out a voice Erik had hoped to never hear again after only a scant eight hours had passed since his last being in the opera house, the sudden intrusion on what should have been a quiet afternoon at his piano leading him to strike a discordant note on the ivory keys. He just barely resisted the urge to throttle the man as he turned in his seat and saw that yes, it was indeed none other than the Vicomte de Chagny invading his private room yet again, face suffused with that stupid grin of his, the boy completely oblivious to the bristling tiger glowering at him with poorly disguised disdain.

“Is there something you require of me?” Erik managed to ground out. Bafflingly, the boy let out an incredulous laugh in response.

"Require of you? Dear sir, I should be asking that of you! A triumph—" he laughed. "Why, it was an utter triumph! The look on her face when I presented that composition of yours!" The Vicomte laughed again, sweeping off his hat with a flourish. Erik realized with mounting revulsion that this boy-sailor in his enthusiasm was on the very verge of relating the whole affair to him, and so he hastily rose from his seat and collected his coat from its stand.

"A fascinating tale, I'm sure," he remarked as he shrugged it on. "Unfortunately, one I shall have to hear another time. I must help set up for tonight's performance."

Set up, naturally, was not for another hour besides and could very well be done without him, but that was not known to the Vicomte who amicably followed him on his way to the door.

"Of course, monsieur! Pray, do not let me keep you from your work. But I _am_ serous about that request, you know. I simply must reward you! After all, I'm not sure what I would have done if I had not had that song to give Miss Daaé, especially with the number of admirers knocking on her—”

 _To Christine!_ he lamented, abruptly rounding on the Vicomte in mute horror, the youth in turn starting at this sudden attention. Given _her_ that scrap—that scribbling—that child’s cantata! Presented such a voice with that pitiful excuse of a composition? It had been during the Opéra Populaire’s production of _The Tales of Hoffmann_ two years ago that Erik had first truly noticed her. La Carlotta, secure in her status as Prima Donna, had suddenly “taken ill” on the fifth night of the opera’s run, and so it had rested on the shoulders of little Christine Daaé, understudy and hitherto little known soprano, to take on the role of the mechanical doll Olympia. And oh, how she had triumphed! So full of charm and comedic wit was Christine’s Olympia that Erik had found himself struck by a sudden and terrible inspiration.

In a feverish haze, he had worked all through the night constructing the props that would become Olympia the living doll. The opera’s managers had nearly had his head when he’d abruptly fostered the new set piece on them that morning, a complicated contraption of gears and pulleys that would allow Christine to descend from Carlotta’s static perch and traipse around the stage it will. Christine, just as he had dared to hope, took the changes in stride—indeed, utilized them in ways he hadn’t even conceived—making it far too easy for him to ignore the outrage radiating from Firmin and André. After all, how was the indigency of a couple of managers to compare to the way Erik’s soul, so long left to fester and molder, neglected to rot, stirred once more with a long-forgotten sense of ingenuity? And then, even the managers who cared for little else but their pocketbooks could hardly dare regret how the soprano’s newly unleashed Olympia coaxed such riotous praise and laughter from the audience.

And to think, he had awarded her the slag of an uninspired intellect! Heavens above, how the soul repulsed and twisted at the thought!

In a few quick strides, Erik had returned to his piano, selecting a much cared for page amongst his collection and then made his way back to the door whereupon he shoved the thing into the hands of a bewildered Vicomte. "Take this—give it to this soprano of yours," He demanded. He turned back to his piano, took an agitated step forward, whirled around again. "When do you see her next?”

“Tomorrow evening but—”

“I want to know how she takes it. Come back here as soon as it is done.” And with that, Erik returned to his piano bench and dismissed the Vicomte with a wave of his hand, mind distracted with half-formed thoughts for the remainder of the night.

The following day found Erik in no less a reprehensible state. First, he had snapped at Nadir when his friend had rightfully expressed surprise at his insistence on arriving at the opera house a full ten hours before that evening’s performance, and then once he gotten there, he had shouted at a ballerina who had innocuously dropped one of his props during warmups, earning himself a withering glare from Madame Giry. Every which way he was snapping, biting, and barking at his colleagues until at last to everyone’s relief he simply retired to his private room for the rest of the day and resolved to await in indigent silence for the Vicomte’s return. This had proved itself nearly as Herculean a task. By the time the clock struck ten, Erik had just jumped up from his seat resolved to seek the boy out himself when at last a quick succession of knocks resounded on his door and then the Vicomte was striding inside, a huge grin permeating his features.

“She loved it!” he crowed without preamble. “Oh, maestro, you should have been there—but what a splendid performance! How perfect, her Fortuna! I profess I’ve not seen many a production of _Hannibal_ before, but I dare say she must be—"

“By God, boy, what do I care for _Hannibal!_ What did she say about my song?” he demanded as the youth deposited himself into the single good armchair in the room with a sigh.

“Oh! Well she loved it, naturally. Thought it very intriguing—how did it go again? ‘ _Slowly, gently, nighttime…_?’”

“’ _Night unfurls its splendor,’”_ he corrected irritably. “Was that everything? She didn’t say anything else?”

“Poor girl, I don't think she had the words for it! She keeps trying to guess the composer, but she hasn't been right yet. I dare say she didn't expect me to bring her something original! In any case, I could certainly tell that she liked it, even more so than the last piece you gave me. She said she would try to learn a little of it for our next meeting. Ah, I can only imagine how lovely it will sound from those lips!”

Erik ground his teeth and sat heavily upon the piano bench. He felt so acutely rattled, like he was lost upon a listless sea one moment and then being battered by a hurricane the next. Somehow, this reception both disappointed and captivated him. She had liked his song. She was desperate to know who had composed it. And yet, that was all the Vicomte could tell him. Had she thought the subject matter odd? The melody a little too melodramatic? Had it moved her? Enraptured her? Then, abruptly, his brain caught up with the boy's words. “You haven’t told her where you got them?”

The Vicomte laughed. “Not yet. She’s absolutely beside herself trying to figure out where they’re from. It’s becoming a little game of ours….”

The Vicomte continued to prattle on, but Erik had stopped listening. Christine, it appeared, was interested in his music. She had no idea it was he who had composed them. After all, he had not thought to sign his name on his compositions as he had been all but sure no one else would possibly bear witness to them. Who would, after all, when the mind that had created them was housed by such a horror? Suddenly, a truly terrible idea sprang to mind. _Would she be as entranced by the rest of his songs?_ he pondered, dismissed the thought, felt it take root despite himself. _When would such an opportunity ever present itself again?_ his traitorous heart whispered. He had barely spoken a single word to her, but Erik knew what the Opéra Populaire’s other residents thought of him: _freak, miscreant, wretch, monster_. No woman would ever spare him or his songs a moment’s chance.

But with a vicomte’s charm….

“I will help you woo this lady songstress of yours.”

“Maestro?” gaped the Vicomte. Erik had surprised even himself as the words left his mouth, yet he could not bear to take them back now that the idea had been spoken aloud, his plan seeming more feasible by the minute as he mulled it over.

“You said that there was nothing she loved more than music, yes? Think how she would feel towards a suitor who composed his own original songs!"

"But I can't write music!" Lamented the Vicomte. Erik smiled.

"Indeed, which is why _I_ shall compose it and _you_ need only present it."

"You mean—as my _own_?"

"As your own," he confirmed. Raoul sputtered.

"But I can't just lie to her, nor would it be right to claim your music like that! Surely commissioning a piece--"

"Monsieur le Vicomte, any man may _buy_ an aria, but to present an original composition written by one's own hand, knowing that such an intimate work was intended solely for her and her alone.... Why, what woman could resist such a temptation?"

 _Especially,_ bruised Erik, _when it should come from a man in possession of a good face and finer fortune!_

"I-I don't...."

“Think, boy, how delighted she would be, how infinitely more precious it must feel to be presented with such a fine offering...."

Raoul worried his lip between his teeth. His brows furrowed. “But, _why_? Why would you do this for me?”

 _Why indeed_ , Erik mused, although he daren’t mull over the thought for long. “For an audience,” he answered, feeling at once how wholly inadequate the word was. “who will paint with their reverent sighs a far more elucidating portrait than an auditorium’s worth of applause. After all, what truer test can there be than the scorn or praise of love’s first blush?”

“I should hope it would be the latter!”

“And so it shall. My songs have not failed you yet, Vicomte.”

The boy licked his lips. Opened his mouth as if to argue the point further. Closed it again.

"So I am to...pretend that I wrote them?"

"In their entirety."

"And I suppose you'll have another song for me to give her on her next performance?"

Erik allowed himself a brief grin at having so caught the youth before turning his mind to issue at hand. “While that is a charming enough game for school children, it is hardly tempting for a grown woman,” he chided, running a hand through his hair as he paced. “Better yet, a performance…on the night of the winter gala…at the balcony overlooking the Place de l’Opera. There we shall present this new piece to her personally. How is your singing voice?”

“I’m afraid I am about as musical as a crooning pigeon,” said the Vicomte with apologetic shrug. “But I can play a little on the violin, if that helps.”

At Erik’s urging, Raoul gave a demonstration on his own instrument which leant the piano.

“Yes, I suppose you do only play a little, but it will suffice. I will have something by tomorrow, so practice it as best you can. In the meantime, you will need to compose a letter to Ms. Daaé….” Here, Eric paused as he thought, one spidery finger toying with the chain of his pocket watch. The corner of his lips quirked into a smirk. “Tell her she is to meet at last the very maestro whose compositions she so loved.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to give big ol' thank you to everyone who's given this story a chance so far, especially given the distinct lack of Christine in that first chapter. Hopefully this makes up for it lol

The final two weeks of _Hannibal_ ’s run passed as a dream, time blurring from one moment to the next until Erik had blearily startled awake from his piano one morning and found that the day of the gala had come at last. True to his word, he had sent the Vicomte sheet music for the new cantata weeks ago and though he had known that he could not touch the melody, reliant as he was upon the skills of a hobbyist musician, the same, unfortunately, could not be said of the libretto. Even here at the final hours, Erik could not help but agonize over the lyrics. They were good—that he would grant with a degree of certainty—but he did not simply want _good_. He wanted his words to leap from the page, to soar, to move the heart of another such that they could no longer be the same person. Even as the clock struck six, Erik was still pouring over his composition with a critical eye. It was not until a knock sounded at the door and Raoul de Chagny strode into his private rooms clad in a bespoke dinner coat and ivory bowtie that he at last placed his pen back in its inkwell, smoothing out his work with a reluctant hand.

“You brought your violin?” Erik asked in lieu of a greeting, noticing that the boy had shown up empty handed. The Vicomte nodded.

“In my private box. Figured it’d be easier to fetch it there instead of here,” he answered and then blinked. “But you’re not dressed!”

Erik winced, running a hand through his disheveled hair in an attempt to tame it. The boy did not need to know how he’d practically lived at his piano bench these past couple of days, too high-strung to even consider being elsewhere.

“I planned to do so now. Here are the letters—rewrite them in your own hand. You’re welcome to the pen and paper here at my desk. As soon as you’re done, simply slip the first under the door of Ms. Daaé’s dressing room. The other I will plant before you are due to meet her.”

“So this is to be the meeting place and time?”

Erik inclined his head and held the letters out for the vicomte’s inspection. The boy opened the first of them.

 _“O, Fair Rosina! While Bartolo is occupied, await your Almaviva whereupon you first heard him sing,_ ” he read aloud, and then glanced at the title of the libretto included within. “‘Ecco, ridente in cielo’…? I don’t understand.”

Erik frowned. “It is the first cavatina in _The Barber of Seville_.”

The boy’s look of confusion did not subside. Erik resisted the urge to sigh.

“I am telling her to meet you on the balcony beneath the bust of Rossini while everyone else is watching the performance.”

At last, understanding alighted the Vicomte’s features. “ _Ah!_ I think my brother took me to see that opera once when I was younger. Damned if I remember it now though,” laughed the youth. This time, Erik did not conceal his disdain and rolled his eyes accordingly. By God, how lost this fledgling would be without his guidance!

“Once Miss Daaé has arrived,” he continued on. “We will take our place on the central balcony and from there you will perform the piece I gave you. You _have_ practiced it, yes?”

“Of course, maestro! But it is very dark tonight. Are you sure we shouldn’t ask her to meet somewhere better lit? And why on different balconies?”

Erik huffed out an annoyed breath. “One oughtn’t charge forward like a raving bull in affairs of the heart, Monsieur le Vicomte. A lady wants for thoughtfulness and romance, mystery, tension! Or were you simply planning to take her all at once so the flame burns out as quickly as it was lit?

“Dear God, certainly not! I shall see it done, monsieur,” the Vicomte sputtered, cheeks flushing. “Where should I meet you then?”

“It wouldn’t do to be seen too often together. Rest assured, Vicomte, I will find you when the time comes. In the meantime, you are to avoid Miss Daaé as you would the plague, do you understand?”

And with those last assurances that he would do his best to evade her until the appointed hour, Erik left the Vicomte to his work. He himself travelled upwards, climbing two flights of stairs and then navigating a maze of hallways until he alighted upon the seldom used space that was the property-master’s office. Most of what was there were the remnants left behind by its previous owners: a velvet armchair that had seen better days, stacks of books yellowing and seldom read, leftover props with no place in the opera’s current productions. Still, he had been mindful enough store a spare evening suit there (in truth, the only one that ever saw any use) and would have access to a sink with which to freshen up, so in spite of his aversion towards that foreign space, Erik unlocked the door with a little silver key and went inside.

By the time he emerged again onto the grand staircase of the Palais Garnier, this time clad in a respectable dinner jacket and bowtie of his own, the gala had already been in full swing for nearly an hour. It would still be another hour besides until that night’s exhibition in the auditorium, but the minutes seemed to stretch beyond that. It certainly hadn’t help that Erik felt woefully out of place there amongst the flashy gowns of silk taffeta and the richly perfumed clouds of fine tobacco, stealing between the Parisian elite with no particular destination in mind save some new shadowed corner whenever a pair of eyes dared train too long on his ivory mask, too long on the looming figure who seemed the _Danse Macabre_ come to life, besmirching their revelry with his very presence. The free booze helped, of course, though he could not partake of that particular vice as much as he would have liked (especially whenever he caught sight once or twice of chocolate curls and alabaster skin and it took nearly everything in Erik’s willpower to not trail after the lithe figure surrounded by other opera performers).

Mostly he kept on eye on the Vicomte who, true to his word, remained firmly ensconced within his own party. He only approached him once: thereupon the striking of the eighth hour just as the other party goers began to make their way to the auditorium. The Vicomte had allowed himself to fall to the back of his group and spared him only a passing glance as the property-master brushed past him, slipping a hand into the Vicomte’s coat and stealing from it the freshly written letter contained within. Wordlessly, Eric continued his passage up the stairs and along the gilded hallways of the grand foyer, weaving deftly through the crowds still gathered beneath its glittering chandeliers until he had made his way out of a set of doors and into the cool night air.

Blessedly, at this hour there remained only a few stragglers outside, even then in the midst of gathering their belongings so they could attend the exhibition. Rossini’s balcony, on the far end of the hall, was completely deserted. It was quick work for him to deposit the cream envelope on the balustrade and then dash back inside, taking up guard around a corner on the opposite end of the foyer. One after another, he watched as various parties of gentlemen and ladies filed back through the grand foyer and down to the staircase below, the hall quickly becoming deserted. It was in that moment that Erik glimpsed a figure in a pale blue dress hasten across the hall and out one of the open doorways, and he allowed himself only a brief moment of weakness at the sight before he steeled himself again and trained his eyes back down the hallway. Five minutes later, another figure, this time laden with a violin, appeared.

Erik caught the Vicomte’s elbow just as the youth made to step out onto the terrace and raised a gloved finger to his misshapen lips in order to avert any protestations. The Vicomte, recognizing him at once, nodded in understanding and Erik took the opportunity to steal past him back through the open doors and out across the marble floor. Thankful that this night had proved itself to be a moonless one, he pressed himself against one of the stone columns abutting Mozart’s balcony and furtively peeked around it. In the darkness, he could just barely make out the outline of that same lady three balconies away. She had his second letter in hand, the one containing the libretto to his newest composition, and was currently absorbed in the perusal of its contents. This lady could be none other than Christine, waiting, just as he had known she would be clever enough to devise, beneath the bronze bust of Rossini.

Assured that all the pieces were now in place, Erik at last gestured to his companion. Quietly, the Vicomte too made his way across the hallway and joined him behind the column. With a nod from Erik, the boy sucked in a one final nervous breath. Then, gripping his instrument more firmly, he marched out onto the central balcony and turned to face the area’s sole other occupant.

“Fair Rosina!” The Vicomte called out into the night. The figure on Rossini’s balcony started at the sound and turned to face its source.

“Raoul?” hesitantly returned the sweet voice of Christine. The Vicomte sketched a bow.

“Prima Donna,” he proclaimed dramatically. “Fair nymph that would inspire the very angels, allow me the honor of presenting your maestro.”

And then the Vicomte raised his violin.

The first few notes began a little sharply, but soon enough the youth found his footing and the night was filled with the sweet if clumsy sounds of Erik’s cantata. The libretto, which Christine held in her hand, he knew by heart:

 _The day starts, the day ends. Time crawls by  
Night steals in pacing the floor  
The moments creep yet I can’t bear to sleep  
‘Til I hear you sing_

_And weeks pass and months pass. Seasons fly  
Still you don’t walk through the door  
And in a haze I count the silent days  
‘Til I hear you sing once more_

_And music, your music, it teases at my ear.  
I turn and it fades away and you’re not here._

_Let hopes pass, let dreams pass! Let them die  
Without you, what are they for?  
I’ll always feel no more than halfway real  
‘Til I hear you sing once more!_

As the last of the vibrato faded away, silence descended on the balcony. Raoul lowered his violin and bow with a flourish and watched the soprano expectantly.

“Well, Lotte? Only don’t keep me in this suspense!”

She seemed to have been struck dumb. “ _You_ wrote those songs?”

“Did you like them?”

“Like them? They’re beautiful, Raoul,” she marveled. “I can scarcely believe it, that you could create something with such depth of feeling—it was like glimpsing into another's soul! I hadn't even dreamt such a thing could be possible." 

“Well, my poor caterwauling hardly compares to your voice, Christine, but I am glad you liked it all the same.”

"You, the composer!"

The Vicomte chuckled. "I told you I would let you meet him, didn't I?"

"You!"

"Christine, it shall be a very long night indeed if all you plan to do is repeat yourself!"

The girl laughed, at once incredulous and awestruck. “Raoul, you cannot spring something like this on me and then expect me to give some fancy speech like I’m a heroine in a novel! I mean, you never showed any inclination when we were kids—and you’ve been so long at sea—whenever did you find the time—and to think you’re a fan of Rossini as well!” She laughed again and the Vicomte was grateful she did not actual expect an answer to her questions. "But, Raoul, why do you remain so far away? Will you not join me here?"

Elated, the Vicomte opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative, but he paused as he felt a hard tug at his cloak. He looked back and saw the property-master shaking his head vehemently. "I—no?"

"No?" She repeated, taken aback.

" _No?"_ The Vicomte whispered incredulously at his companion, the other rubbing his brow fiercely before moving closer to hiss something into the youth’s ear. "No," declared the Vicomte more firmly this time as he repeated the words being mimed at him. "No, it is too dangerous to risk…. When we are together...your presence is like the sweetest alcohol…. It turns my tongue to lead...and strikes me dumb when I ought to be eloquent. I forget what I mean to tell you."

Where the figure on the other balcony seemed to have shrunk back, she now drew closer again at this new speech.

"And what is it that you mean to say?"

"That I adore you!" The Vicomte jumped to answer, earning himself a kick in the shins for the effort. "I mean—see how even the space of three balconies still renders me a fool! For how could such a small word possibly encapsulate all that I feel for you? You, who are both Muse and Gaia. You, who my piteous songs can only seek to emulate in pale imitation. I once laughed when Socrates described humans as a whole cleaved in two, restless until they could be reunited once more with their missing half. Now it is Socrates who laughs at me, miserable wretch that I am whenever I am without the very angel who inspires my music!"

"Your music!" She sighed. "Raoul, I….”

The girl would not continue on.

“Why do you hesitate?”

“Only—could I ask you something?”

The Vicomte clutched the balustrade. “Lotte, anything!”

“Would you compose another song for me?”

He jolted back. “You—you mean— _now_?” He croaked and then let out a strangled yelp when Erik’s elbow connected with his ribs. The Vicomte looked back to admonish him only to see the man imitating a writing motion. “I mean yes—yes of course I can! Only let me fetch a pen and paper—”

“Raoul, just sing it,” Christine laughed. “I want to hear your songs in your own voice this time. They are so beautiful that it seems a shame I’ve yet to hear them sung by their creator!”

The Vicomte’s eyes widened. “Oh, um, I-I don’t really have the voice for such a thing….”

“Now that I cannot believe, but I won’t laugh if that’s what troubles you. I promise.”

“ _I can’t sing!”_ hissed the Vicomte to his companion.

“Raoul?” Christine called, taking a step towards the hallway.

“Stay where you are!” Erik cried out in alarm before demanding lowly of the Vicomte, “ _Your hat! Your hat!_ ”

“Oh, you _do_ seem nervous. I don’t think I’ve ever heard your voice sound so strange before.”

Shushing the boy’s protestations, Erik yanked him behind the column and forcibly removed the Vicomte’s top hat, heart pounding in his throat. “Only stay where you are or I don’t think I shall be able to keep my courage.”

Christine quieted dutifully. He felt the Vicomte tugging incessantly at his arm, but Erik merely shook him off and shushed him again. Jerkily, he took a step forward onto the balcony. Stopped. His fingers flittered nervously along his waistcoat as he, still half hidden behind the column, watched her resume her spot at the edge of the balustrade, silent yet attentive to his presence. Abruptly, he remembered the mask covering the malformed half of his face and licked his lips nervously. The night was dark to be sure, but even in such insubstantial lighting, would the ivory mask stand out in too stark a contrast to the rest of his face? Could he risk her noticing it?

Swallowing hollowly, Erik, careful to keep his face angled away from the Vicomte, slipped his mask off. He sucked in a sharp breath as the biting winter air instantly stung the oversensitive skin on the right side of his face. Before he could regret it, he shakily slipped the thing into his coat pocket and took another step onto the balcony. He turned to face her. Winced. It felt wrong somehow, exposing her to such a horror though he knew she could not possibly see it from where she stood three balconies away, shrouded in the dark as he was. Erik took a deep breath and forced himself to take another step forward. Another. Then another until he too abutted the balustrade. What was it she had requested again? Right, a song. She had wanted the Vicomte to compose a song.

He resisted the urge to groan aloud at the thought, faced as he was now with this second hurtle. What was he to _sing?_ He had meant every word he relayed to the Vicomte. Attempting to encapsulate all that she was felt such an impossible task. How pitiful it made his librettos seem now! But at least there, in the solitude of his private sanctum where stanzas and melodies and librettos had flowed from the tip of his pen as if he were but a mere puppet of Apollo, there at least he had not felt as tongue tied as he did now. And even if he could find the words, would his voice, untested before any audience save himself, possibly be able to do them justice? By God, would it be that very instrument of his body that would draw out fatal disappointment at last? Now, so tantalizingly close, so very exposed upon that lightless balcony, he felt his courage nearly fail him again.

And still, she waited for him.

 _"Once there was a night,_ ” He began, the words falling from his lips hesitantly. “ _Beneath a moonless sky. Too dark to see a thing, too dark to even try.”_

Christine let out a gasp and he could not help the small shudder—of fear? Elation?—that coursed through him as he felt her eyes boring into him in the dark.

_“I stole to your side tormented by my choice.  
I couldn't see your face yet trembled at your voice._

_And I touched you, and I felt you  
And I heard those ravishing refrains.  
The music of your pulse, the singing in your veins_

_And I kissed you, and caressed you  
And with every breath and every sigh  
I felt no longer scared, I felt no longer shy.  
At last my feelings bared beneath a moonless sky._

_And when it was done before the sun could rise  
Ashamed of what I was, afraid to see your eyes  
I stood while you slept and whispered a goodbye  
And slipped into the dark beneath a moonless sky.”_

Erik could not go on. Unable to bear it any longer, he turned away from the figure on the other balcony and pulled at his bowtie to loosen it, the soft silk suddenly unbearable against his raw and scratchy throat. For a moment, he could hear nothing but his own frantic heartbeat in his ears and despaired. Had he disappointed her this time? Was she indifferent? Had she seen through his ruse and found that it could not have been the Vicomte singing that song after all? But before Erik could wallow in his anguish any further, he heard it. There at last from beneath the bust of Rossini, a reverent little, “ _Oh_ ,” uttered with such feeling that was sure he would never again hear a sweeter sound in all his life.

“Christine?” Erik uttered tremulously, voice hardly above a whisper, his eyes again daring to seek her out. The girl had pressed herself to the balustrade, hands clutching at the cool stone as if with one leap she could close the distance between them.

“But why must you say goodbye?” she pleaded. “Oh, Raoul _,_ won’t you come to me?”

How could he have possibly refused her?

In a daze, Erik stepped back behind the pillar. Fueled by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he took another step towards the hallway and had been on the very verge of making the rest of that arduous journey (too far, had the hallway always been this long?) when a touch at his elbow froze him in place. The Vicomte de Chagny was suddenly beside him then, in that terrible moment, taking back the top hat with a grin and a whispering an enthusiastic, “ _thank you, my friend!”_ before the youth stole past him and down the hallway, meeting Christine beneath the bronze bust of Rossini in his stead. It was like he was suddenly doused in ice water. He could just barely make out the hushed whispers of lovers’ declarations past the rushing in his ears, declarations _his_ songs had solicited.

Unable to resist that dreadful impulse any longer, Erik glanced round the pillar, his eyes alighting upon the pair locked in an embrace. He watched the Vicomte bend down to whisper something to Christine. The girl looked away and then back at him again. She gave a timid nod of her head. The Vicomte’s hands were on her cheeks then, she moving her own to clutch instead the lapels of his coat, and he lowered his head to meet hers. By God, she was going to let him kiss her and Erik, his hands curling into fists at his sides, heart clenching painfully, couldn’t bear to watch it a moment longer, this thing that had all been entirely of his own doing, his own fault, his greed that had drove the girl to the Vicomte’s arms instead of his.

As Christine raised her head to meet the boy’s lips in a kiss, he felt that last shred of his courage leave him. Hands shaking, Erik donned his porcelain mask and fled back into the opera house.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, here marks my first work in this fandom (and really, my first fanfic in a while). I hope you all enjoy this one! And if you don't know it already, please do yourself a favor and check out a performance "Les Oiseaux Dans La Charmille", which is the song Christine would have sung in her role as Olympia. I'm not 100% sure how realistic it is for the cast to be performing Offenbach, but it's just too tempting to resist.


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